


how to plant a garden in rocky soil

by treeprince



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, hand on god we gonna GIVE yall some fluffy cottage boyfriends, jon experiences a backrub for the first time in his life, martin finally gets to lay hands on jon the way he's always wanted to, massage flashfic, mid-160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-28 22:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21399424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treeprince/pseuds/treeprince
Summary: Sometimes you just need a good pair of hands to work out all the kinks in your life.Good thing Martin has two.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 24
Kudos: 696





	how to plant a garden in rocky soil

**Author's Note:**

> this is 1000% inspired by linecrosser’s jonmartin [massage fanart](https://linecrosser.tumblr.com/post/188950884911/tense-man-needs-to-relax), lort help me i am down on my knees, _begging_ for more domestic cottage boyfriends finally being soft with each other. 
> 
> there is a sibling fic to this by my bestie arc [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21399499) which is equally as satisfying, if not more so, to read. enjoy your cakes~

Or; that one time Jon caught hands from Martin, but in a good way.

  
  


The highlands are so nice at this time of year, the clouds rolling over the hills at dawn, fog lifting like a veil as the sun peaks through the mist in rays. The dew on the grass twinkling like emeralds in a sea of stormy green.

It would be even more breathtaking if it wasn’t also stupidly cold at this time of year, the chill creeping its way into the cottage through the cracks. Jon has never been one for bundling up, and hasn’t really had time the past few months to build a decent collection of winter garments, what with the coma and subsequent wild chases he’s been on since awakening after… well, all that is painful memory now. Now he wishes he had, because the way his body protests at the slightest provocation of movement is becoming unbearable.

It’s only been two weeks of hiding in Scotland with Martin, but every night no matter how close Jon is wrapped up in Martin’s arms under the covers, he ends up rubbing his arms and hands over his body come morning, trying to wring the stiffness out of himself. Whenever Martin makes them tea he gives his thanks and then spends the next twenty or so minutes just using the hot cup to take the edge off the ache in his hands. Even Jude’s mark gives him more trouble in the brisk chill of winter’s early grasp. Still, he says nothing, content to dig his fingers into quilts and under Martin’s jumper where it’s warm and soft. 

He’s become rather fond of holding Martin’s hand as they fall asleep, their fingers twining together with Jon's face tucked into his collarbone. Sometimes Martin will place a timid kiss on his crown when he thinks Jon is asleep, his lips fluttering like he still can't imagine this is theirs to keep. The experience is… exhilarating, as much as it is terrifying.

This particular morning is no different than the others so far. Jon peeks his head out from under the comforter and regrets how quickly the air bites at his nose for his curiosity. He puts off getting out of bed as long as possible, but Martin has already been up for well over an hour if the state of their little dining table seen strewn with empty cup and plate through the open doorway is anything to go by. He eventually makes his way out of bed, hurries to the dresser and throws on the first warm thing he can find, then stumbles over to the kitchenette to make himself a cuppa. Martin glides up behind him to greet him ‘good morning’, even going so far as to give him a kiss despite Jon’s stale sleeping breath. The flurry of butterflies in his stomach doesn’t settle down for hours, and it helps drive away the stinging needles in his body as he eats his toast and jam while reading the newspaper.

It’s some time nearer to lunch that he's unhappily reminded of the state of his body while reaching for a crossword book high on the shelf. He must have pulled a muscle or _ something _, because the sharp twinge in his back is so great that he loses his balance and almost topples to the floor. He grabs at his side, other arm flailing out trying to hold onto anything for stability and knocks over the other items on the shelf just to embarrass himself further. The heavy thumping of books is enough to startle Martin in the next room, his head popping around the doorway to watch Jon try to hide his throbbing side with his hands.

“Everything alright?” Martin asks, clearly frazzled by the sudden noise.

“Fine, fine. I’m fine.” Jon swears under his breath, bending down to pick up his mess, and in the process pulls at the same sore spot again. There’s no disguising the muffled whimper he lets out, stopping in his tracks.

Martin’s steps are quick and heavy, and in a flash he’s hovering behind Jon, one hand on his back. “You’re obviously not, why are you even hiding it?”

“I’m not hiding anything, I just-just lost my footing for a moment.” He says testily, but still hunched over, not moving to keep the little pangs away. It works, but only briefly. He groans when he stands, feeling all the aches and pains he’s been running over like a bulldozer for months. Amazing what a double-edged sword finally getting to relax has been. He’d almost prefer being on the run to this constant..._ discomfort_. "I'm fine, just a little twinge in my back."

Martin isn’t buying it though, if the way he levels a disbelieving look at him is anything to go by.

“Right, and I’m a burlesque dancer on the side. Come on, lie down.”

“Lying down won’t fix the problem-”

“It will if you give me ten minutes to give you a massage.” Martin interrupts. “I’ve been listening to you moan and groan for two weeks, without you _ saying _ anything might I add, and I’m a might bit fed up with it to be honest?” The way his voice stresses on the _ honest _ wilts any lingering fight Jon may have had left.

There’s no room for argument as Martin leads him by the arm, gently, to lie down on their unmade bed. The sheets still smell of the both of them, and it’s soothing in a way that only being around someone you’ve loved from a floor away for years can be. He lays back awkwardly, uncertain of where to actually place his body and ends up lying on his side facing the room. Martin’s back is to him while he roots around in his rucksack for something, pulling out a small bottle of something liquid and clear with a quiet ‘aha!’. When he turns back around, Jon freezes like a deer in headlights at the bemused look on Martin’s face.

“Do you not want to have your shirt off?” he asks, gesturing with the bottle to the double layers he’s sporting. 

Jon’s nose crinkles in confusion --and somewhat slightly distaste, but of course he doesn’t mention that. “Do I need to be naked for this?”

“Well no, but you might not want to get baby oil all over my favorite wool sweater. Unless that’s something we need to talk about.” The little half turn of his lips lets Jon know he’s joking, but it still sends a bloom of warmth into his cheeks and along his back. He didn’t realize that he’d even picked up Martin’s sweater out of the dresser this morning, too preoccupied with finding anything decently thick to keep him toasty.

“No, but perhaps we need to talk about why you have baby oil.”

“I packed the essentials Jon.”

“Baby oil is essential?” He asks, deadpan.

“It… has its uses.” Martin’s flustered stare in return is more than enough answer. Still, he waits expectantly for Jon to either remove his clothing or risk Martin's wrath leaving it on.

He shakes his head, pulling the sweater off. He leaves the loose undershirt on however, as it’s simply too cold to be doing this without one layer between him and the crisp air, and he doesn’t really care either way if it gets a little greasy. “I’ve never been given a ‘real’ massage before. How do you want me?”

“Oh, uh, on your side is fine for now. I can move you later if you want, I know a few positions that work really well for back and body aches.” He doesn't explain how he knows the positions, but Jon can take a few guesses without having to ask. The pointed way Martin won’t quite look him in the eye is telling enough that he was rather hoping Jon _ would _ get naked. Martin doesn’t let the disappointment dampen his mood apparently, as he guides Jon to lie down with his left arm hanging behind his back. 

He squirts a small dab of oil into his palm, quickly capping the bottle before rubbing his hands together. Jon feels it’s a little bit more for show than actually warming it up, but he’s grateful for it when Martin’s hands touch the top of his arm and just holds them there. The gentle heat and pressure is already doing wonders for his shoulder, reaching into him in ways he never could on his own. He didn’t really expect anything to come of this, but Martin is always proving himself capable in areas he never gave much thought to. _ As usual_, he thinks.

“Your muscles are like Celtic knots, Jon…” he says, running his palms smoothly over the corded muscle in even strokes of pressure. He slides them, one hand on top of the other, down and under his arm, back into his shoulder again, digging away at the tension trapped there. “You could weave a tapestry with the way you’re all tied up inside. What the hell were you _ doing _ down there all those months?” 

“I was in a coma for half a year and then immediately accosted by the avatars of several fears, sometimes even running for my life.” The dry sarcasm in Jon’s voice isn’t directed at Martin so much as it is the circumstances that led to his particular predicament. Being made so openly vulnerable, after a lifetime spent brushing off the supernatural, is offensive to him in the worst way. “Do you think I did this to myself for the health benefits?”

Martin shrugs, makes a noncommittal sound, then continues that kneading motion just below his shoulder blades. It feels incredible and he’s ashamed to admit that he forgets what he was just talking about, letting himself sag bonelessly into the bed. The hands start pulling at his arm, one holding his shoulder in place while the other drags itself all the way down to his wrist, repeating the motion several times until Martin lets it drop onto his side uselessly. “As I remember it, you walked into several of those encounters willingly, but uh, no? Lie face down please.”

Jon huffs, still hoping to be spared the indignity of all this outright protective nagging, but turns himself so that he’s on his stomach. His arm feels like jelly now, but the tingly aching feeling is gone from his shoulder. Martin wastes no time, confidently running his fingertips with that same gentle pressure from the base of Jon’s spine, up under his shirt until it’s pushed all the way up to his neck. He runs his deft hands along his spine over and over again, minimal flinching from Jon when he happens to find a bigger knot than the others, but overall he can feel his muscles relaxing. Martin's hands are so warm that everywhere he touches holds a lingering but pleasant heat.

Bits and pieces of the past year and beyond are finally loosening their grip on him, drawn out of him by a quiet force like the tides on the sand. Martin doesn’t remark on the missing ribs as he works, surprising Jon for his absence of curiosity; but he doesn’t speak up about them either, so it evens out. He’s still hung up on the idiocy of ever thinking taking something so literally from inside himself would have ever worked as an anchor, when the one thing he always turns to like a beacon home is currently digging his knuckles into the dip in his lower back. Jon knows he’s not the smartest person, but the truth is more tangible than ever.

Martin’s hands have traveled all the way to the top of his spine again, his fingertips rubbing circles nicely just below his skull and along his neck. It’s so euphoric he doesn’t think he’s ever going to doubt the mystical mundane powers of Martin again. When he speaks it’s muffled by his arms. “It wasn’t like I did it to spite you. I’d grown rather used to being prevailed upon violently by my peers, as it were.”

The hands at the back of his neck stop. Jon blearily lifts his head, about to ask what’s wrong, only to find Martin staring down at him with an expression he doesn’t quite understand.

“Y’know, I once worked waiting tables for all of six months before quitting because of how badly my back hurt every day.” Jon turns his head further to indicate he’s listening. When Martin doesn’t continue, he nudges him with his elbow. “I had a number of odd jobs before working at the Institute, actually. Every one of them was brief but grueling work, and I'd always end up quitting before the pain got too bad." His hands still haven't moved, but their weight is a comfort. Whether it's calming for him or Martin is uncertain, but he assumes it's probably both.

"When I got the job at the Institute all those years ago, I figured, wow. Finally a career where I don't have to worry about pushing myself too hard. I can _ take it easy _ . I used to get winded going up and down the stairs there, but now,” he lets out a breathless laugh, his hands going back to working into the space between Jon’s shoulder blades a fair bit _ rougher _ than before. The involuntary moan he lets out is swallowed up by Martin’s rambling, but his eyes stay focused on him. “Now taking a walk through the fields for hours is easy, because I’ve spent ten years working at a glorified library of evil, running from ghosts and worms and all other sorts of strange creatures.”

The vehement way he buries his hands into the knots under Jon’s skin is reflected in the way his tone shifts from reminiscing to one of outright frustration. “On top of that, I was constantly worried about everyone, but especially _ you _ , who was either being impaled, or-or kidnapped, or nearly flayed alive! You even had the gall to go barging into the one place I was sure you’d never be stupid enough to follow, so don’t you _ dare _ tell me you’re ‘ _ used to it’ _ , Jonathan Sims! We _ earned _ our peace, but you’re not supposed to keep being reckless after the fact!”

His voice had been pitching up by the end of his rant with a manic zeal unlike anything Jon had seen in months. In the silence Jon almost wishes he had something better to say than _ sorry _. He tries to anyway, pushing past the lump in his throat.

“I know it’s...difficult for me. To express myself. My feelings, and otherwise,” he turns his gaze away, unable to look into Martin’s eyes unguarded. “I suppose I’m- still not used to this _ aggressively caring, _ version of you.”

Martin sighs, but it’s one of fond exasperation, all the fire draining out of him. “I’ve always cared, Jon, you just weren’t paying attention.”

Jon tenses up again, but then lets it go right after. He turns his head back into his arms to hide his chagrin. “I know, and for what it’s worth...I’m sorry.”

Martin’s hands ease up, rubbing a little gentler into the knots in Jon's back. “...You’re forgiven.”

Jon settles back down into the quiet of his arms, the steady working of Martin’s hands lulling him into a kind of tranquility he hadn’t known he was missing until now. He doesn’t know how long passes before Martin breaks the silence again, his words coming fast and hot.

“Still, it wouldn’t kill you to take better care of yourself. Especially now that…” he stops, fumbling after realizing how he must be coming off. “I mean, we’re not exactly in any _ immediate _ danger out here, but- it wouldn’t hurt to just, I don’t know.” He blows out a hard breath, clearly needing the release of tension as much as Jon does. The words come out softly, with a touch of heartache, but Jon drinks it in. “Take it easy on yourself. Let me know when you’re hurting. Promise me you’ll try?”

Jon feels that blessed warmth again, all the way to the ends of his toes now. It’s a wholly otherworldly experience to be ‘aggressively cared’ for by Martin Blackwood, but he’s really starting to like it. 

His answer comes out softer than he intends, the tendrils of something sweet curling up and out of his throat unbidden.

“I promise.”

The smile in his voice must be transparent, because Martin’s hands go almost as hot as a kettle on his bare skin. He can’t see Martin’s face, but he knows he must be as red as his hair. It spurs a soft laugh to his lips- that quickly peters out to a content sigh as Martin digs his thumbs in alternating circles along his back, returning to the task before him.

"Good. Good, thanks."

The cold feels miles away now. It’s just him and Martin’s experienced fingers here, under his watchful eye in their shared solitude.

It’s thrilling to be cared for by someone who understands you in a way no one else probably ever will, but even more satisfying to make them smile like a giddy schoolgirl with a crush. Martin lifts the jelly hand to his lips, placing a hot kiss to the tip of each finger. If Jon has an equally as silly grin on his face, it’s nobody’s business but the pillows.

He’s almost asleep sometime later when he realizes Martin has just been idly petting him for the better part of an hour. The indignation (he’s not a bloody _ cat_, honestly) rises back up like a tsunami. It’s much easier to chase down his boyfriend and catch him with his own questing fingers, now that all the tension has been wrung out of him by such loving hands. It’s only fair he return the favor.

**Author's Note:**

> yes im a ginger martin stan, i think it suits him. same goes for jon looking like two steps from death with grey well beyond his temples so, let the slowest burn couple have their time being uncomfortably domestic after being uncomfortably in pining.
> 
> this fic was also jokingly titled "gee martin, how come your archivist lets you touch him with TWO hands?" and "uphill gardening but not the sexy kind"


End file.
